


Wind Down

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Denial, Fluff, Ignoct Secret Santa 2017, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 03:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13114869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: There were some goading notions that Ignis was not prepared to explore or accept. But at least someone beat him to the punch.





	Wind Down

“You got it bad.” Gladio said as he swept his training sword across the space where Ignis had just been standing. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Polearm used as leverage, Ignis launched himself out of Gladio’s not inconsiderable reach; the heavy swing of the weighted training sword promising more than just a few bruises if he let the strikes connect, the rush of air at the near misses threatening to topple his balance. They hadn’t had much time to train together like this before— to test each other like this. Each one worked with Noct, at their own pace, with their own specialisations. They had always had their prince between them as a buffer. But Noctis was not here today to cheer them on or fret— to step between them with his own studies, or to make those silly little pacts with one or the other to team up on whoever was left out. Their prince was down the hall with the Marshal, working on his aim and stances with swords lighter than what Gladio was used to. 

The change in their schedule had left Ignis and Gladio at a loss for the time they had with the well-equipped training rooms. 

It was only a friendly challenge. 

“Noct doesn’t know,” another swing of the greatsword and Gladio’s momentum brought him closer, feet moving with the strength forcing the blunt blade ahead— lashing out at the space where Ignis had only ever been, keeping his companion on the defencive; “He’s a smart kid, but oblivious most of the time.”

“Again,” Ignis refused to acknowledge what Gladio was saying, was suggesting. He fell back in tactical retreat, using the space between himself and his opponent to judge any breaks in Gladio’s formidable defence; “I have no idea what you mean.”

The satisfied smirk was all his answer, and he took several glancing hits before he managed to duck past the protective circle Gladio’s stance and movements provided. It took two direct strikes to the Shield’s hands to loosen his grip on his weapon, and then another blow to his ribs and hands again to disarm him, hooking his polearm against where he had managed to connect to wrest the greatsword from Gladio’s stubborn hold. Even then, with the greatsword clattering to the ground, Ignis found his own weapon wrenched from his grasp and the momentum his speed granted him used to knock him back with a swift knee to his stomach. The wind rushed from him as he landed hard on the padded floor, the edge of his own weapon pinning him in place with a painful press against his belly. 

Ignis let himself relax and catch his breath; “I yield.”

Gladio offered a hand to get him back up. “You going to tell him?”

“There’s nothing to tell, Gladio.”

“I think there is.”

“Thinking has never been your strong suit.”

Ignis hopped over the retaliatory swipe at his feet and offered his own smirk in response to the petulant look from the royal Shield. He had always known Gladio to be smarter than he let himself seem— observant and critical, fine qualities for the man tasked with assessing risks to the heir to the throne. But there were times when Ignis could certainly manage perfectly well if that critical attention was turned elsewhere, if that talent for observation was left off of himself. He was simply glad they hadn’t made any wagers on their training today, knowing that if it wasn’t just a trivial tit-for-tat dealing, there would be far more awkward conversations in the near future. 

“You should talk to him, you know,” Gladio gathered up their training weapons to put them away. To set them into the racks braced against each wall, displayed among the greater variety the Crownsguard were expected to study. Among the variety that the King was expected to know as if by second nature. All the old weapons of the ancient kings and queens mocked up for training. Ingis busied himself with a warm down, taking stock of the bruises that he know would form later, stretching out muscles that were already beginning to burn with the exertion of keeping up with Gladio. 

“If I were to acknowledge your preposterous suggestion, what might I be saying to Noctis?” He made his way towards the locker rooms, to the shower and change of clothes before he went to collect the prince from his lesson with Cor. “Fancy a drink, highness? You look quite fetching, would you join me for dinner? Really, Gladio, be sensible.”

“Right,” Ignis barely acknowledged the light push to his shoulder as Gladio stalked pass. “I meant to clear the air, you idiot.”

“The air is perfectly fine between us.”

“Sure.”

“Has Noct said something to you?”

“Not my place to say, Specs.” 

“Well it’s not my place to even acknowledge this ridiculous idea of yours.” He waited, as always, for Gladio to disappear into a shower stall first. Ignis had always been quick, methodical, dressing quickly in the open air of the locker room until he could deem himself presentable to the staff and inhabitants of the Citadel. 

Noctis was sprawled out on the floor when they reached the training room where Cor had taken him. They slipped in quietly and settled by the door to watch as their prince struggled back to his feet, barely warping away from another blow with a training sword as Cor appraised his skills, his speeds. Ignis resisted the urge to collect Noctis with some fabricated appointment as the Marshal knocked him back and down, but he winced in sympathy as Gladio crossed his arms. He knew what the Shield was watching— footwork and the way Noct favoured his right side, the way he warped a second too late to fully avoid the attack from a superior warrior, the way Noct wasn’t able to pick himself up when Cor pressed his advantage over the prince. Ignis knew that he should have been watching for the same weak points, making his own assessments as Noct refused to yield in the match until Cor had him effectively pinned with the blunted blade at his throat. 

He could barely keep his features schooled, professional in the presence of the Marshal as Noct still fought even when in a losing battle. Even as the prince’s own tenacity and pride forced him to refuse the help up from Cor once the match was done. He listened halfheartedly to the praise and critique, already mindful of where Noct needed to work the most, and instead focused on the way his prince favoured his right leg. He watched the slowness in Noct’s movements, the telltale signs of overexertion he had learnt since they were young and Noct was still too stubborn to acknowledge when he needed a break. 

Ignis wanted to smile as Noct handed over the practice sword in a sulk. 

Instead he followed the prince back to the lockers to change, taking note of the change in Noct’s gait once he was out of sight of Cor and Gladio. Most days, Ignis would have left the shift go unmentioned, he would have allowed Noct his weakness without comment and just made sure there was nothing more serious that the bruised ego to concern himself with. Most days, he would have just stepped back and waited. 

He supposed there was something to be said for adrenaline after all, certainly after his own match with Gladio. “Noctis, I doubt the Marshal would be concerned if you allowed yourself weakness in front of him.”

“What?”

“You’ve over-exerted yourself; you’re limping.”

“I am not.”

“Don’t start,” Ignis abandoned his usual tasks— checking the locker Noct tended to favour for towels and a change of clothes— and pushed the prince to one of the benches. “Let me check you over.”

“I’m fine, Specs,” but Noctis sat back, slouched into a more comfortable position as Ignis checked his knee for anything that may have been damaged in his training. Anything that may have been pulled or displaced. He tested knee and thigh, steeled against the ugly gash of a scar that crossed Noct’s thigh and back from years of exposure. 

“I’m sure you are, Noct.” Ignis smiled at his prince, his friend, from where he knelt for the examination. He may not have Gladio’s skills with first aid and training, but he had more experience with Noct’s pain; “but humour me.”

They had been through this for years; Noct’s impatience as Ignis reassured himself, the gentle press and glide of careful hands across familiar and marred skin, the reminder that there would be stiffness and soreness within the next few days. They had years of Ignis’ quiet concerns and gentle encouragements, of Noct’s tenacious energy and haphazard bravado. Years of quiet locker rooms and private bedrooms, of pills and salves, and the ever-hated braces Noct had refused to use since he was eleven. They had a routine. 

It was a quiet, comfortable routine. 

Ignis didn’t want to jeopardise the intimacy by even pretending that he was entertaining the feeble points Gladio had tried to make. 

“We should go for a coffee.”

Noct’s voice breaking into his thoughts— as carefully guarded as they were— jarred him back to the present, to the prince before him, patiently waiting for the examination of old wounds to be done. “Coffee?”

“Well, I like coffee, you like coffee… It’s just an idea.”

Ignis sat back on his haunches to meet Noct’s eyes, confused by the idea Noct had just suggested. “Since when do you like coffee as more than a necessity?”

“I just do. Do you want to, or not?”

He rose to his feet in a simple motion, fetching the towel from Noct’s locker and the change of clothes. “I suppose we could. Did you have a place in mind?”

“…Not really.”

He offered the towel first, barely biting back the smile as Noct seemed to blush now that his offer had been accepted. “Shall I choose, then?”

“You’d know better places than I would, Specs.”

“True, your idea of a date would be an arcade.”

“Date?”

“Isn’t that what you asked me on?”

“Well… no… I mean yeah, but—”

“What brought this on, Noct?”

He had seen Noctis nervous before— more times than he could recall. He knew the way that Noct fidgeted, played with his hair, knotted his hands in the towel. He knew the way Noct kept glancing at the door, out to where Gladio could walk in, where Cor could walk in— where the disruption in their routine would be noticed. Gladio was usually a step behind, ready with feedback, teasing, with promises to work harder to pick up where Noct had fallen behind. That he was giving them this time had Ignis just as much on edge as Noct appeared to be. 

Later he would find— as he recounted the story— that Gladio would owe Cor for their bet. That this time alone had been planned, worked towards for a few weeks now. That Cor had been whittling away on Noct’s shyness for longer than Gladio had been trying to bully him past his barriers of propriety and station. 

“Nothing, just come on a date with me.”

And there was that boy he knew— emboldened by his own uncertainty, pressing forward through his own anxiety. Emboldened by weeks of talks with Cor, with Prompto, with Gladio. With everyone else but Ignis himself. 

Ignis smiled, “I’d be delighted to.”

“Okay, good.”

“Good.” With a pat to Noct’s shoulder, Ignis sends him to get cleaned up and changed. Any bruises could be dealt with later. “You have a change of clothes in your locker.”

“Thanks, Specs.”


End file.
